


A Blanket and a Song

by fengirl88



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Community: fan_flashworks, Fluff, Inspired by Music, M/M, PWP, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-14 17:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fengirl88/pseuds/fengirl88
Summary: “Now,” said Grant ruefully, “if I knew my business, Merlin, I should have something better to wrap you in than this wretched blanket.”





	A Blanket and a Song

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Blanket challenge at fan_flashworks; thanks to Owl_by_Night for encouragement.

“Now,” said Grant ruefully, “if I knew my business, Merlin, I should have something better to wrap you in than this wretched blanket.”

Strange was a little surprised by this; no one could like an Army blanket, but he had grown used to the privations of war. Indeed, he looked back sometimes with wonder on the pampered man he used to be. He and Grant rarely enjoyed the chance of a night together, away from observation, so that even this makeshift bed in an abandoned hut was something of a luxury, though it was too cold to undress fully. 

“What would you have?” he asked, tightening his arms around Grant.

Grant put his lips close to Strange’s ear and sang, very softly:

“O my bonnie, bonnie Highland lad,  
My handsome, charming Highland laddie;  
When I am sick and like to die,  
He'll row me in his Highland plaidie”

Strange snorted with mirth. “I should like you to roll me so,” he said, and gave Grant a quick, nipping kiss.

Grant nipped back, and pushed his thigh between Strange’s. “The song is meant for a woman, of course,” he murmured, “and I fear it is somewhat bawdy.”

“Mmm,” said Strange, pressing his hips forward. “What does it say?”

Grant kissed him, slow and deliberate, until Strange squirmed and thrust against him more urgently. 

“Well now,” said Grant, and pushed his fingers through the curls at Strange’s nape to make him shiver, “have you the patience to hear it?”

“Yes, yes,” Strange said testily, “only get on with it.” 

He slid his hand between them and grasped at the warm swell of Grant’s prick. Grant cursed softly, and Strange laughed. “If you tease, you must expect to be teased, Major Grant.”

Grant bit at his jaw, none too gently, and Strange moaned.

“Very well, since you insist” said Grant sweetly, and sang: 

“As I came o'er the Cairney mount,  
And down amang the blooming heather,  
The Highland laddie drew his dirk  
And sheath'd it in my wanton leather.”

“Such a fine dirk it is too,” Strange said, laughing. He rubbed the heel of his hand over the curve of Grant’s prick, enjoying his sharp intake of breath.

“There is more,” Grant said, slyly caressing Strange’s arse.

“Yes,” Strange said, rather breathlessly, wriggling. “Yes, go on.”

“With me he play'd his warlike pranks,” Grant sang,  
“And on me boldly did adventure,  
He did attack me on both flanks,  
And pushed me fiercely in the centre.”

Strange could not help laughing at that, though he was half on fire by now with the absurd bawdy and Grant’s teasing caresses. 

“More,” he said, and sucked at Grant’s neck. He rubbed his thumb over the tip of Grant’s prick, and Grant thrust against him, trembling. 

Strange was surprised that Grant could remain as coherent as he was, yet he went on:

“A furious battle then began,  
Wi' equal courage and desire,  
Altho' he struck me three to one,  
I stood my ground and receiv'd his fire.”

In other circumstances, Strange would no doubt have pointed out that the last line scanned poorly. As it was, by the end of the song he could scarcely have told what day it was, or whether what enwrapped him and Grant was an Army blanket, a highland plaidie, or a quilt of finest down. Nothing remained but the fierce desire to spend, and the delight of doing so under Grant’s hands.

“The Merry Muses have their uses,” Grant said, panting. “There is another verse, but it will keep for the morning.”

Strange could make nothing of the reference to the Merry Muses, but was too drowsy to say so; and soon enough he fell asleep to the low rumble of Grant’s humming.

**Author's Note:**

> Grant refers to The Merry Muses of Caledonia, Robert Burns's collection of bawdy songs.


End file.
